the halves that make the whole
by TenTenD
Summary: But that didn't matter, not when his knife sank into the freezing skin of his opponent, and he was repaid by an icy sword being thrust into him. His aim, however, had been reached. If he died like this – if that was the god's plan – he died for a cause. Jon breathed our, a hot puff against the cold. AU! Vignettes
1. i

_"He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark...[…] _

_I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. […] _

_He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything." – _**A Storm of Swords**

* * *

His fingers slacked around the obsidian dagger. He can hear the dragons roaring somewhere behind him, and Jon wonders if the Targaryen queen can still sit upright on that big black terror of hers. Drogon she called him. Rhaegal blew a torrent of flames before him, setting the walking corpses on fire. His target however made of move to seek shelter. The White Walker advanced through the flames. Jon forced his fingers to strengthen their hold on his weapon.

Death was cold, its bite chilling him to the bones. And death was coming for him. He was not a Stark, though the blood of Starks ran through his veins. He was nit a Targaryen either, though his father had given him such blood when he sired him on his mother. The golden eyed wolf had watched him sadly. He did not belong.

But that didn't matter, not when his knife sank into the freezing skin of his opponent, and he was repaid by an icy sword being thrust into him. His aim, however, had been reached. If he died like this – if that was the god's plan – he died for a cause. Jon breathed our, a hot puff against the cold.

"Now his watch is ended."

.

.

.

Rickon Stark was a boy still. Barely eight, and Lord of Winterfell. Sansa worried about him so. "He shall be fine," Sansa assured her brother as they stood next to Jon's bed.

"His heart stopped," Rickon growled more than spoke, a habit he'd acquired long ago. "Shaggy smelled it." His words reminded her of Lady. Lyanna longed for Lady sometimes. Would Lady have been able to feel it to, Jon Snow's – no, Jon Targaryen's – heart stopping?

"The gods have given him back," she replied softly, in a soothing manner. "He is safe with us."

For a moment she remembered the Red Woman urging Lyanna Mormont. _Blood is powerful. Blood can heal. Blood is fire. Fire is light. Light is life. _A drop it had been. Nothing more. But it had animated Jon just the same. His heart started again.

The last Targaryen. Daenaerys Targaryen had died of her wounds, Aegon Targaryen had burned in Viseyon's fire; the dragons did not seem to love Dornish blood. Or it might be that he'd been no true Targaryen at all. Who was to say? There were no kings now. Stannis was dead and burned. Little Tommen had been slain, poor boy. Shireen Baratheon wanted no part of the Throne. Myrcella even less so.

Sansa gathered her skirts with one hand and bent down to place a kiss atop his curling flame hair. "He must rest."

.

.

.

Lyanna stood in front of her namesake's statue. She wondered if this Lyanna had known love. Still, even if she'd not loved the father of her child, she must have loved the babe. "He is brave and kind and honourable. Honour is not always about vows, I've found." But the late Lyanna already knew that, the little she-bear supposed. She'd broken some vows to, if memory served. The gods had their own plans. Why was she speaking to a dead woman? "The Prince that was promised, Azor Ahai, heroes and legends. Those are stories. But Jon is flesh and blood. You should be proud."

They had been running around searching for swords and dragons and prophecies, when the answer had been a child. Unexpected and fitting. _Blood and fire. Winter is coming. _Winter had gone, for a time at least.

"This is a better world," she told the stone statue. "He will be King. I don't think he'll like it though." Lyanna knelt before the cold faceless stone. Jon had not known his parents. And only the gods knew the truth of their relationship, but Lyanna would chose to think they did what they did for love. It did not wash the guilt, but it made it understandable.

.

.

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"I have a debt to pay," Jon spoke, his voice a rough rasp. He did not love her, Jon knew. He'd loved a wild woman with fire in her hair. Kiss by fire, lucky. Ygritte. Lyanna was not that. She had written once that she would not bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. He was only half that. In fact, he was no Stark in name. "You gave me a second life."

He would make her queen for that. His queen. His wife. The mother of his children. Would she give him sons? Robbs, Eddards and Thorrens. Daughters would be welcome too. Lynaras, Berenas and Serenas. Aye, he loved her not, but she was a good woman and it might be that he could make her a good husband and she had ruled her mother's lands since before she was a maiden flowered.

It was time to bind wounds and staunch the bleeding. It was time to rebuild.

Outside Rhaegal and his siblings flew, chasing one another through the blue skies. The snow hadn't yet melted. But it would, in time. "Come with me, my lady. We must go south now."

"Then south we shall go, Your Grace."

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.

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He did not cut himself on the Iron Thorne. Sharp swords surrounded him, the grotesque display filled Lyanna with horror. But she needn't have feared. Jon Targaryen's slim form rested on the throne as if he'd been born for it – and he had. It was not comfortable, he confided in her, but he had to do his duty. Lyanna admired that.

There was no grand ceremony to celebrate his crowning or their wedding. Food had been given to the masses, bread and wine and salted meats. It was not much, but the winter had taken so much from them. The people had been thankful enough, seeing as the new King and Queen ate the same.

"It is not a crown, nor prophecy, nor silks that makes a king," Jon had told her that one night as they sat before the hearth, warming themselves. "Valour is needed."

And a dram of boldness to sit on that iron chair, Lyanna thought, if not sheer madness. And yet there she was, his wife. "Whatever else might be, I shall stay by your side."

"I know." And she thought he did. She'd stayed with him through the worse.

She had nothing else to say.


	2. ii

The days were growing longer. But still the nights held onto the sinister cold of the time past. Lyanna shivered underneath the blankets. Jon slept a little away from her. Though her husband shared a bed with her, it was the only thing they had between them. He would not bed her yet and he would not tell her what he'd have of her. Lyanna shuddered once more. He was ice. And she was slowly becoming ice herself.

There were nights when he tossed and turned, whimpering and chocking on air. Lyanna would huddle on her side of the bed then. The one time she tried to wake him, he had crushed her underneath his weight, holding her down even as she struggled with all of her power. He'd woken up soon enough to her pushing and raising voice. An apology was what she received from him and then his back as he turned to sleep on his side.

But tonight he slept peacefully. Lyanna almost wondered why he didn't place Longclaw between them. He might have as well put a wall there. His back was turned now too. She could reach out her hand and touch him, Lyanna thought, and it might be that he would not feel a thing.

* * *

Jon woke with the rising sun and with an armful of his wife. Small and warm, she slept with her back to his chest. Her shift had ridden up her legs, leaving them naked to his stare and touch. The burnt flesh of his hand had settled against the lower part of her hip. It was scarred and discoloured against the healthy looking skin of the woman.

His wife had kicked the coverlet down, as if in a wilful attempt to catch his attention. Jon pulled it back up after he'd lowered her skirts and rolled out of bed. No night terrors had disrupted his sleep the previous night blessedly enough. It had been of the rare times when he hadn't woken drenched in his own sweat, with the lingering taste of blood filling his mouth.

Timid sunrays broke through the window indiscriminatingly brushing over even and uneven surfaces alike. It was a strange sight, horrifying and gladdening alike. Jon Snow would have been on the Wall, doing his duty of guardian to the realm. Jon Targaryen was among the ruins of King's Landing doing another sort of duty, one he was still unsure he should have accepted.

He signed and ran his fingers through unkempt locks.

* * *

The Lady of Evenfall towered over the newly minted Queen, holding the thin gold band between thick fingers. Lyanna liked Brienne of Tarth. She was an honest woman and a fierce warrior. "If you will have me for a witness, I shall speak on Lannister's behalf." This however she addressed to Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King. The cold metal crowned her in the next moment and she turned her gaze fully on the short man who cast an extremely long shadow in the hall.

She was, of course, referring to the previous Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Jaime Lannister was his name. He had served under three different kings, all of them dead. He had failed the tasks appointed to him, that much was universally agreed upon; however, a great debate was born about what was to be done with him.

Half the court – newfangled Targaryen supporters, who had found their convictions as soon as they saw the impressive size of the dragons – demanded that his head be parted from his body in retribution for his crimes against Mad King Aerys. The other half pleaded lenience, for they too had fought in Robert's rebellion that took the current King's father.

* * *

Jaime Lannister had been given his own chambers, small but fairly comfortable, but guards stood outside his door. Lyanna crossed the floor with a light step, Edmure Tully barely a step behind her. She was not certain why the Lord of Riverrun had insisted on coming with her but she had accepted his escort.

There was currently no guard of the King. That meant that Lyanna too was without guards. Of course, there were always armed men around and she herself carried a slim Valyrian steel knife with her. The peace they had was tenuous; it needed time to take root and grow in the conscience of all her people. Until that time came though the young Queen was perfectly willing to defend herself against whichever enemy might cross her path.

The two men at the door saluted her with all the respect they could summon at the sight of their Queen. Lyanna gave them a stiff nod and handed Lord Tully her knife. "If I have need of you I shall call." The war had taught her much, among which to keep sharp object out of the adversaries' hands.

They opened the door for her and she stepped over the threshold.

* * *

Lifting his head from the documents that had been placed before him, Jon gave Tyrion a dry look. He was a smart man, Tyrion Lannister, and it was only too much a pity that he could not leave the healing of the realm in his hands. "Is there anything you wish to tell me, or have you come to distract me from my work?"

"People talk," Tyrion began without preamble. "They always talks, yet this time their words are dangerous. Have a care not to emulate the first Aerys."

The warning was as clear as it could be. Jon bowed his head over the parchment for a moment. He considered his Hand's words. "She is very young."

"Daenerys Targaryen was younger when she was wed to her horse lord. Sansa Stark too when they gave her to me for a bride." Tyrion almost never spoke of the annulled marriage between himself and Sansa, who had gone on to wed a Tyrell for political reasons.

"She is neither Daenerys, nor Sansa. There is time yet," Jon decided.

"The realm needs stability," Tyrion insisted. He was right, the King knew. "An heir would go a long way to provide just that."

A grimace bloomed on Jon's face then.


	3. iii

A sharp smile, all teeth, greeted her. Lyanna had not expected him to be as relaxed as he was. She had expected worry to mar his features, but the Kingslayer – as he was called by almost everyone, except for the Lady of Tarth – regarded her with impertinent eyes that stripped her of any protective layers.

Before her stood a man who had lost his position, wealth and respect, but not his dignity. That had been bred into his bones. And it made him dangerous.

"So you are the new Queen of this wretched realm?" he drawled lazily, eyes looking her up and down, as if in search for the chink in her armour "The other Lyanna didn't get this far. My sincere congratulations, Your Grace."

Deciding against giving him some choice words, Lyanna simply sat down on a stool. It was most uncomfortable, but she had suffered worse. "Tell me one good reason for which I should not allow your head to be parted from your shoulders?"

The Lannister blinked. The chain rattled across the floor as he moved his leg. His mouth opened and booming laughter spilled past his lips. "You really shouldn't attempt to save me, Your Grace."

* * *

Jon gripped Longclaw, giving his swing a rounded form. Steel crashed against steel, spark flying in the air. The other sword could not hold under the sharp attack of the Valyrian steel. The blade cracked, its edge becoming uneven. "Do you see what I mean now?" the King asked the squires that had gathered to watch.

The Florent knight gave him a swift bow and retreated a few paces back. Most people seemed reluctant to approach him. Jon did not wonder at such behaviour. There were times when he too feared himself.

Ghost growled softly from his place on a haystack. The direwolf was distrustful of most courtiers. Luckily though, Jon always managed to soothe him enough to avoid an incident.

He looked up to the sky, gazing at the bright colour. There was not a cloud to be found. "I think this shall be all for today." Giving the company one last nod, he turned around and walked away, Ghost following at the distance of a few paces.

They entered one of the small corridors together. Jon, lost in thoughts as he was, barely even saw Tyrion coming towards him. He stopped, more out of instinct though.

"Your Majesty, come with me," the dwarf requested.

* * *

Lyanna was praying in the godswood, as was her custom most days. When she had been crowned, it had been required of her to promise her faith to the Seven. But those were words and words were wind. The North had a far longer reach than most could understand. It went the same for any other of the kingdoms. Lyanna had been raised with her nameless gods and while he understood the necessity of accepting the Seven, privately she would continue worshipping her own deities.

A bench had been fashioned for her to sit on. It was made of a black wood, coarse and rough, but sturdy. Lyanna used it for a few moments before kneeling. For those seconds, she imagined herself back home with her sisters. All of her sisters. And her mother.

They had given her a crown, but she had lost more worthy things than the metal on her head. When she became Jon's wife, she promised herself that the realm would be put back together no matter the cost. Unfortunately, the task was more difficult than she had expected. There was trouble all over the realm.

The war might have ended, but its remnants remained very much visible.

* * *

"You wish me to forgive him?" The question rang out in the empty space between them, world falling like lead. Jon regarded his wife with suspicious eyes. "Why would I even consider that? The man is a criminal, charged with treason no less." His lips pressed in a tight line.

"Strip him officially of his position in the Kingsguard; make him a permanent prisoner if you must, but do not kill him." He could not fathom what was going through her mind. Jon waited for further explanation. "Jaime Lannister is not a bad man."

"My father was not a bad man either," he pointed out. Confusion bloomed on Lyanna's face. "Lord Stark was not spared on account of being a good man."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," she began, the stubborn set of her chin a warning, "but Lord Stark threatened the Queen." His eyes flashed dangerously. Lyanna did not heed it. "He was in the right, but that does not change the fact that she the Queen and thus dangerous. Jaime Lannister had his orders, Your Majesty. Soldiers carry out orders."

His shoulders fell. "I will think upon it," he allowed. There was anger in his voice though. He could hear it clearly himself.

* * *

"Your Grace," Brienne said softly, her large frame standing before one of the high windows. There was a hopeful expression that she wore, her eyes pleading for good news. Lyanna was not certain of her success though.

"They will offer me no help, Lady Brienne. My husband is mulishly stubborn and your Jaime had the audacity to laugh in my face and claim that he does not need saving." A sigh escaped her lips. They were both very troublesome men.

"He is not my Jaime," Brienne murmured under her breath.

Lyanna waved her hand around dismissively. Those words could not fool her, of course. Brienne was fairly easy to read. And Jaime Lannister was her to be sure. In what capacity, that remained as of yet unanswered.

There was still the detail of Cersei. Lyanna had avoided visiting the former Queen. Cersei Lannister was decidedly unhinged. Most people were best served keeping themselves at a distance. She, however, had to do her duty. Unpleasant as the conversation would be, she had put it off long enough.

"Come, Lady Brienne. It is time we saw to the lioness in our keep." The other woman followed close behind Lyanna, her presence soothing.


	4. iv

The members of King Jon's court whispered among themselves. They stared with hungry eyes towards the convicted man that had been brought in their fold, at the same time watching for the King's reaction, ready to take their cue from their monarch. Has Jon frowned or showed anything but cold indifference towards the accused, it might have prompted his loyal subjects to take drastic measures.

It was the way of a young and unsure reign. Everyone waited with bathed breath to see what would happen and they all wanted to be on the side of the winner.

It was perhaps the reason for which many a people found themselves willingly forgetting the nobler of Ser Jaime's deeds. His faults were many, that was not to be denied. Yet he was not quite the monster he was painted as. Still, his courtiers would do just about anything to avoid incurring his wrath, Jon noticed. It was the burden of any crowned head to be surrounded with lickspittles.

The case had been long deliberated and many sitting of the court were on this subject. Frankly, Jon had had enough. It was time to give a verdict.

It was time for his subjects to witness the making of a king.

* * *

"You have heard what the court had to say about you, Ser Jaime," Jon spoke over the shushed whispering of the crowd. "And yet you do not defend yourself." The only persons who had dared commend Jaime Lannister had been Brienne, who had done so passionately, and Tyrion, who had been rather just as shameless in his delivery.

Jaime shook his head. "I have always believed that actions speak louder than words." He looked briefly towards the Lady of Tarth who defended him so staunchly. And that seemed all that the knight was willing to say. His reluctance to defend himself was viewed with some suspicion by a few members of the Small Council, but they duty was to pass judgement.

Jon considered all that he had heard. The destiny of the man before him was in his hands. He could rid the world of Jaime Lannister. He could close his eyes to the intention and reasoning behind his first betrayal and he would prove himself incapable of forgiveness. He could absolve the man of sin and then he would prove himself weak.

There was, of course, the matter of Bran Stark. None had mentioned it. But Jon knew.

Indeed, Jaime Lannister was completely in his control and the King could do as he wished.

"Ser Jaime Lannister you are hereby stripped of you white cloak and you are removed from your position in the Kingsguard. Furthermore, your claim to Casterly Rock is declared null and void, the lands of the Warden of the West and its annexes are to pass to Lord Tyrion Lannister." The announcement came as little surprise. Jon could see that on the faces of his subjects. However, he had not yet exposed to them the whole of Jaime's sentence.

His Queen sat at the foot of the throne, her eyes glued to him. Jon continued. "In addition, you are exiled from Kin's Landing on pain of death should you ever be tempted to return. You are to leave as soon as transport may be arranged to carry you to the Island of Tarth, where you shall wed its Lady."

That had been the easy part. Jon stood up from his seat and walked down the steps, past the Small Council. "And so as to never forget the reason behind this judgement you are to be administered two dozen strokes of the whip." All his other punishments could be easily explained. But the whipping was a matter of personal choice. It was Jon's revenge. It was pay for crimes which had not been discussed and which would never again see the light of day.

* * *

In the North, according to the ancient rules passed down from generation to generation, the man passing the judgement was to hold the instrument of punishment. Jon had killed men before. Both in battle and in judgment. The South had a different approach to such events. However, since he owed very little to rules he had not grown up with, Jon decided that he would be the one who carried out the flogging.

Leather rested in his hands as the former member of the Kingsguard was tied with tight knots to a strong pole. His back had been bared not only to the sight of the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle, but also to the cruel kiss of the leather.

Raising the whip high in the air, Jon brought it down with a loud crack. It had not struck Jaime, as it had been more of a warning. But the next lash cut a deep gash across his back and blood spurted out of the wound. A grunt of pain was all Jon hear, all that he allowed himself to register as he went on. Pity had no place where they stood.

In the end blood and exhaustion wrote then ending of the punishment Jon had insisted on.

* * *

Jaime had been taken away to have his wounds washed and taken care of. Lyanna, who had witnessed the delivery of the punishment along with every other soul in King's Landing, ordered away the noblemen who had gathered around her husband.

The King did not wish to make conversation with any of them. Under pretext of wishing to have words with Jon, Lyanna led him away. She crossed her arm through his, touching the trembling limb gently. Many questions scorched the inside of her mouth, but she bit the back and walked with him in silence.

There would be time enough to understand his reasoning later. Lyanna had seen it in his eyes, she had seen it in his very motion; Jon had punished a wrong unknown to them. And for those smart enough to see that, it was a mystery worth pursuing.

However, until the time and place were suited for such a discussion, Lyanna decided against broaching the subject.

It was to be hoped that the King would find some closure with these actions. It was also to be hoped that the rest of his reign would follow a milder course.

Lyanna pushed away those considerations, Lyanna walked on, her clutch on Jon's arm tightening.


End file.
